Butterfly (14 page)

“N
o! No! Stop, Butterfly, before I hurl my lunch.”

Seneca halted midstride. “Is something wrong?” she asked the runway coach, who when meeting her had seemingly sniffed her like a dog familiarizing itself with his new surroundings.

Keane Thomas waved his arms. “Wrong, Butterfly? What’s wrong is that you have a beautiful face, the perfect body, yet you walk like hundreds of other models.”

Staring at the tall, slender man with a shaved pate who favored large red horn-rims, she rested her hands at her hips. His black-and-white striped T-shirt and black slacks reminded her of a mime. “What’s wrong with walking like a model?”

Keane moved closer to the raised stage doubling as a runway. He squinted, mounting the stairs and bringing him face-to-face with the most naturally beautiful woman he’d encountered in years, and in the past decade since he’d become involved in fashion he’d seen more women than he could remember.

He’d grown up believing modeling was about a pretty face
and a tall, thin body. But once he got into the business, Keane realized it was more than that. And for a runway model she had to have the
goods:
face, body and a signature walk. Seneca “Butterfly” Houston had everything but a signature walk.

“You don’t look like any other model, Butterfly. So why do you want to walk like everyone else?”

Seneca blinked. She’d practiced ad nauseam, perfecting her walk until she could execute it in her sleep. “What can I do to change it and still feel natural?”

“Have you seen Tyra or Naomi on the catwalk?” Keane asked. She nodded. “They have signature walks, Butterfly,” he continued. “Even if you didn’t or couldn’t see their faces, you would still know it was them. That’s what I want for you. From the moment your stiletto hits that runway for the first time I want every eye on you. It’s not going to be enough for photographers to snap pictures of you, but for them to wait for you to come down that runway again. You’ve got a dancer’s body, Butterfly. I want you to use it.”

Seneca thought of Miss J, runway coach on
America’s Next Top Model.
He didn’t walk down a runway, he literally glided. And that’s what Keane wanted. He wanted her to glide instead of walk.

She pointed to a stereo unit on a table. “Can you put on some music?”

Keane’s inky-black eyes lifted in his sun-browned face, a tan further enhanced by spending time in a tanning bed. “What kind of music?”

“I need something with a heavy baseline beat.”

“Hip-hop or heavy rock?”

Seneca smiled. “Hip-hop.”

Keane nimbly hopped off the stage and turned on the unit. The distinctive voice of 50 Cent flowed through speakers. Turning around, he stared at Seneca. She’d closed her eyes,
one hand tapping against her thigh. Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched in awe as she morphed into Butterfly, floating down the runway, her arms swinging gently, her hips swaying sensuously and her feet in a pair of strappy stilettos crossing in front of one another, taking her to the edge of the platform. She paused for three seconds, hands at her waist, then pivoted gracefully, retracing her steps.

Smiling and applauding softly, Keane congratulated himself. She got it! All he’d had to do was talk to Seneca Houston and she got it, unlike some models, with whom he worked hours and still they couldn’t master the technique.

“That’s it, Butterfly,” he crooned. “Now I need you to do it again. This time without the music.” He punched a button and the room went silent.

Seneca closed her eyes and exhaled a breath. She felt the music, but wondered if she could do it again without it. Recounting the tune in her head, she opened her eyes and walked, her hips and shoulders keeping time with the silent rhythm. She didn’t see Keane as he walked along the length of the platform, his gaze following her every motion from head to toe.

“How was that?” she asked.

“That was better than the first time. I want you to take a five-minute break, then we’ll do it again and again until it becomes second nature. When you get up in the morning and before your feet hit the floor I want you to think about your walk. It doesn’t matter where you are or what you’re doing, you must remember you’re always Butterfly.”

Extending his hand, he assisted Seneca as she walked off the stage and went over to retrieve a bottle of water. Keane watched Seneca uncap the bottle and put it to her mouth. She was a rare find, and he knew she would become an instant sensation with her first show.

Sitting on a folding chair, Seneca sipped the water, enjoying the cooling liquid sliding down the back of her throat. She was looking forward to driving up to Ithaca for the weekend if only for a change of scenery. After her photo shoot with Phillip, she’d called Yancy to meet with him about her hair. It took four days of playing phone tag for them to connect.

The talented stylist, who rented a chair at an Upper East Side salon, had so many private clients that he was rarely seen in the salon. She finally set up an appointment with him, and after spending three hours in his chair she’d emerged from the upscale establishment with a chocolate shade shimmering with red and gold highlights.

Seneca knew she’d shocked Luis Navarro when she walked into his apartment, because it had taken a full minute for the designer to utter a word. And when he did it was to go on and on about her new hair color. He liked it because it brought out the gold undertones in her complexion.

Luis had wanted her to see the sketches of the new Butterfly collection he was working on for Rhys Calhoun. It was her turn to become mute when she’d stared at his sketches of skirts, dresses, slacks, blouses and jackets in every conceivable color and fabric. She still hadn’t figured out what it was about her that inspired Luis to design clothes for her. The first time she’d asked, his response was that she’d become his muse. However, there were times when she felt that she’d become more to him than his creative inspiration.

As promised, Phillip called her several times a week, asking when he was going to see her again. Seneca knew it had been impossible to give him a definitive answer because she was dividing her time between fittings with Luis and meeting with Rhys to discuss her involvement with his swimwear show in Miami.

She’d also visited her gynecologist, who’d fitted her with
an intrauterine device. Seneca knew she couldn’t afford to get pregnant—not when she was on the threshold of breaking into the world of high-fashion modeling. She liked Phillip, liked sleeping with him, but not enough to marry him or become the mother of his children.

“Are you ready to try it again?”

Keane’s query pulled Seneca out of her reverie. She glanced at the watch on her wrist. Booth had asked her to have dinner with him at his condo later that evening, and while she’d tried to come up with a plausible excuse why she didn’t want to meet him at his home, she’d found herself agreeing.

“I’m ready,” she said, pushing to her feet.

This time she didn’t need music to inspire her as she strutted down the runway as if she were wearing Givenchy or de la Renta instead of a pair of cropped jeans, tank top and four-inch sandals. She knew she’d shocked Keane when she executed a flawless pirouette that would have made her former ballet teacher proud when he gasped audibly, then applauded.

“You’re more than ready,” he said, smiling.

Seneca took his hand as he helped her down the three steps. Putting her arms around his neck, she kissed his smooth cheek. “Thank you.”

Easing back he stared at her. “No, thank
you,
Butterfly. Not only do you make my job easy, but you also reaffirm my self-confidence that I’m very good at what I do.”

She kissed his other cheek. “I promise to make you proud of me.”

He cradled her face. “Make yourself proud first.” Keane dropped his hands, watching Seneca as she sat and exchanged her heels for a pair of running shoes. His gaze lingered on her until she walked out, closing the door behind her.

Booth didn’t bother to stand when his housekeeper escorted Carter Browning into his home office. Although Joan had
given the young man his private number, he hadn’t called until earlier that morning. And it was curiosity more than anything else that had him agreeing to a meeting.

“Mr. Gordon—”

“Sit down and start talking,” Booth ordered, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. Despite the hot, humid weather, Carter Browning looked cool, fresh in a lightweight suit, white shirt and silk tie. “I’m expecting a dinner guest and I want you out of here before she arrives. Now tell me what your connection to Dennis Mayfield is.”

“I was introduced to your boyhood friend by a third party.” Tenting his fingers, Carter brought them to his mouth as he gave Booth Gordon a long, penetrating stare. “After you hear what I have to say you will probably invite me to stay for dinner.”

Booth’s eyes narrowed. “Get the hell out of my home!”

Carter lowered his hands. “Not so fast,
cousin.
”

A hint of a smile touched the agent’s thin lips. “I don’t have any cousins. So, whatever your con is, Mr. Ivy League, let me warn you that you can’t out-hustle a hustler.”

Carter’s impassive expression did not change. “I’m not trying to hustle you, Booth. I’m your uncle Seth’s boy.”

“My uncle and his wife didn’t have any children.”

“Your aunt didn’t have any children because she couldn’t have any. She’d had a botched abortion as a college freshman that resulted in a hysterectomy. Why do you think she was so taken with you? You’d become the son she never had. It was your uncle who’d fathered a child. Me,” he said after a long pause.

Booth didn’t know whether to reach into a drawer of his desk where he kept a registered handgun and blow the lying bastard’s head off or continue to entertain the preppie punk who’d claimed they were related.

“Who was my uncle screwing?”

“I’ll give you one guess. How do you think I was able to gain access to your office so easily?”

Booth flinched as if he’d been jabbed with a sharp instrument. Realization suddenly dawned. No one, and that included BGM employees, ever walked into his office without prior approval. “Joan Powers.”

Carter nodded. “Good ole mommy dearest. But I really don’t think of her as my mother because she didn’t raise me.”

“Who did?”

“Arthur and Pamela Browning. Pamela is Joan’s sister. The Brownings and Seth had arranged for the adoption before I was born.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket and placed it on the desk. “That envelope contains my birth certificate and adoption papers. Both have official seals. Those copies are for you.”

“How old are you?” Booth asked.

“Thirty. Joan managed to conceal her pregnancy until the last three months. It was then that she took a medical leave of absence.”

Booth shook his head, not wanting to believe Carter, yet not ready to discount his claim. “That must have been when she claimed she’d undergone gall bladder surgery.”

“It was. You probably didn’t pay her much attention, because you were too involved in learning the business so you could take over after Seth died.”

Slumping back in the leather executive chair, Booth swiveled, his back to Carter, and stared out the window. “Why did you get in touch with Dennis?”

“I needed a name in case you wouldn’t talk to me. It worked, didn’t it?”

Booth spun around. He stared at Carter, trying to see some resemblance between the younger man and his late uncle. The forehead was the same, as was his nose. Everything else, including his mouth, blond hair and blue eyes, were Joan’s.

“Only because I was curious about you. When I called Dennis, the only thing he said was that he’d met you. Now tell me why you’re here, other than to claim we’re blood relatives.”

Carter looped one leg over the opposite knee. “I need you to hold on to some money for me.”

Booth’s temper exploded. “Get the fuck outta here! I’m not going to use my business to launder money for you.”

“You won’t be laundering money, cousin. What I need is for you to open an account and hold the money for me until I need it. You’ll get ten percent of every cent you deposit.”

“It’s called money laundering,
cousin,
” Booth spat out. “The last I heard that’s illegal.”

Carter’s lips twisted into a cynical smile. “And so is paying your
good
friend to put the muscle on clients who are reluctant to sign with
your
agency.”

Fisting his hands under the desk, Booth flashed a defiant grin. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You think not?” Carter countered. “Dennis didn’t tell me about your little business arrangement, only because he’s like a loyal puppy. For some reason I fail to understand, he’d give up his life for you. It was Joan who told me everything. She hates you even more than she loved your uncle, but you already know that. After Seth died, she waited for you to go on vacation and had your office bugged. Every meeting, conference and telephone call is recorded.”

“Where are the tapes?” Booth’s calm voice belied the rage making it difficult for him to draw a normal breath.

“They’re in a safe-deposit box in an upstate bank.” Reaching
inside the breast pocket of his suit jacket, Carter pulled out a palm-size recorder. “Here’s a little of what’s on one of the tapes.”

Booth listened to the recording of himself when he directed Dennis to convince an ambivalent actor it would be in his best interest to renew his contract. “I’ve heard enough,” he spat out. Crossing his arms over his chest, he angled his head. “What is it you want? A piece of the agency?”

“I want nothing to do with the agency. I just need someplace to safeguard a client’s money.”

“Why don’t you open your own account?”

Tilting his head, Carter stared up at the ceiling. “I run a small law firm with no more than half a dozen clients. I just picked up one who has a great of money but prefers to keep a low profile.”

Booth knew when he’d been bested. Even if he hadn’t believed Carter Browning was related to him, his voice on the tape telling Dennis to strong-arm an actor he’d identified by name was damning. “How much money are you talking about?”